


This Hurts

by LovelyLIBRAry



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Danny’s Decent, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Thought Projection, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLIBRAry/pseuds/LovelyLIBRAry
Summary: Frank’s a fuck up; Danny’s strong enough to hold them both.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison
Comments: 16
Kudos: 51





	This Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> Project of mostly-connected ghostfrank shenanigans. This is more to keep me writing than for content. Enjoy the ride :)

He’s fucking spiraling. He can feel it, the pounding in his head, the shakiness in his chest. Each breath comes out stuttered and short, and his hands shake. A cigarette. He needs a cigarette. 

Frank’s hands fumble as they search his jacket’s pockets, crumpling the carton of Marlboro in his need. There’s one left, but one’s enough. For now at least. 

It’s fucking freezing outside, and his world feels like it’s tearing down, down, down; he feels a manic joy when he flicks his lighter, watching white burn to black as he lights the tip. He takes a drag, and fuck it feels good. Feels good finally breathing something, because the air hasn’t felt as cool, as _real_ lately.

And Frank...he tried, alright. He tried to be good, tried to fucking deal with it like a decent person. It’s why he hauled his piece of shit car up the mountains, deep into the forest, to breathe something like cleaner air and fresh pine. Tried chasing that ease he’d get up in the lodge with his Legion, just the four of them sitting by some trees and watching the stars, not as pissed off and fucking terrible as he feels now.

But he’d spent something like ten minutes sitting in the freezing cold, staring into space and breathing everything and nothing at once. Realized there were no amount of breathing techniques or distractions he could take to get the fucking screaming out his head, the hollow weight out his chest.

He’s just fucked up. Nothing to be done about it. Always to be said. No amount of hugs from Susie, tough lovin’ from Julie could change how pissed he woke up each morning. How sometimes he wished he didn’t. Joey was a good guy, but he had his own shit to deal with. All of them did. They didn’t need their “strong, fearless” leader breaking down on them and piling on more.

He’s thinking too much. His cig’s long since burned down, and Frank's reaching for his pack again before he remembers it’s empty. He’s still shaky, and if anything his smoking’s made it worse. His fingers thrum on the steering wheel, foot tapping as he contemplates what he could, _should_ , do next.

Next best thing would be to get himself to Clive’s, shut himself in his room and take some sleeping pills to get through the storm. Things like food and water float through his thoughts, but flashes of silver blades and rough jabs interrupt his clarity. He can’t trust himself walking through that door; can’t trust Clive won’t say something more to set him off, that he won’t say, do, something that’ll get him in a cop’s back seat. In the pig’s pen he and Julie liked to sneer. 

No, Frank’d much rather find himself cuffed and face down over something other than another bar or near-missed juvie hall. Kicked out and sleeping over at Susie’s because her parents are too soft to turn him away like everyone else with sense had. 

He’d like to call Danny, but with his luck, the fuck’s probably three towns over doing what he does in the dark. Probably fucking over some other attention-hungry codependent dumbass like him. He feels jealousy simmer beneath his skin, sitting thick in his gut but he just huffs and wishes for another smoke. 

He’s still feeling sick on his drive back, thoughts too muddled to really pay mind that his car might just break down and leave him freezing and stranded miles away from another soul. Frank’d like to think it’s because he trusts himself, that he’s thinking about more important things. In reality, he knows he could give two shits what happens to him out here. 

He doesn’t really register he’s made it back to Ormond ‘til he’s blinded by fluorescent lights, the neon flashes of a 24-hour gas station winking him over. He gives in, decides he’ll try to live another day—not the same to be said for his hunk of junk. It groans in pain when he slams the door shut.

The store’s door chimes sweetly when he opens its foggy panes. Frank’s got $40 to his name, and he knows he should put it all to making sure he has enough gas to get to Clive’s. But he’s a fuck up, and fuck ups make bad decisions. Like sliding a twenty over the counter for a pack, and meeting Louise in the back for another two-second blow job. Small parts are choking hazards. 

Frank’s mouth feels filthy when he leaves to pump gas in his tank. He sits with it ‘til he’s done, wipes his hands on his pants and gets some feet away before he’s ripping open the plastic and lighting another cigarette. It only makes the taste worse. 

He loses his mind there, feeling his lungs soak in cancer and other bad shit. Smoke sways in the air, and everything around him’s a blur. He’s startled by a honk. 

Dark eyes and short, black hair match the deep eye bags of Danny fucking Johnson. He’s leaning his head out some sleek black ride in all his average-height glory. Frank’s below average, and he feels the taunt simmer in the air before he hears it.

”Hey, shortstack. Fancy meeting you here.”

Frank feels the corner of his mouth twitch up, but he hides it behind another drag.

”Fuck off, Freakface,” he shoots back, and they both know he doesn’t mean it.

”Fuck _on_ , actually,” Danny’s snarking, still leaning out the window. His car purrs in the empty silence that follows, and Frank sees the darker look in Danny’s eyes when he steps up close to the other, crossing his arms because suddenly, he feels exposed. 

They’re staring at each other, Danny all cocky smirks and Frank...not that. It’s always weirded him out that Danny shows up when he needs him most, and while his heart’s screaming to let the other in, to let him help take the pain away, Frank’s been doing this shit solo too long. 

He tenses up when Danny leans up, and there’s got to be something on his face—maybe he can smell the jizz and smoke on his breath—because Danny’s leaning back, eyes squinting at him while Frank’s foot starts tapping faster, hand twitching over the cigarette curling ashes and getting close to singing his fingers. He’s quaking. Anxious.

And then he’s panicking when Danny sits back, eyes leaving Frank to look out the windshield. He feels his face grimace but his eyes never leave Danny, even as he feels something build inside him. It’s swelling, makes his throat close as he sees Danny reach for his keys—

The engine cuts off just as suddenly as Frank realizes Danny’s getting out, all black clothes and toned sleekness. Resilient, even against Ormond’s harsh cold. Frank backs up to give him space.

He’s curling his arms tighter over himself, suddenly feeling super fucking gross when he notices how clean the other is. He smells good, even with the shitty cologne wafting in the air, but Frank thinks that maybe it’s the cologne that makes him smell so good to Frank.

He’s thinking too much. 

He goes to take another drag but soft touches pluck his vice from his hands. Hot anger builds inside him, suppressed rage flushing his face as he watches Danny drop the butt to the ground and crush it beneath his boot. 

There’s a hard look in Danny’s eyes, something that says to keep his fucking mouth shut if he wants to even have a tongue to wag. He shakes harder, digs his nails into himself as he feels something else rise and take place. Tears sting his eyes before he can blink them away. 

“You’re too good for that shit, Frankie...” Danny’s sighing, slowly stepping closer to the other. 

He’s so _warm_. He’s a beacon. He’s giving Frank hope where he knows it’ll hurt later. Frank grits his teeth against the choked whimper trapped in his throat, feeling the sharp beginnings of a migraine in his temples. 

The pain spurs him on. Like polishing a blade, he tongues over his canines, letting his rage grow. He has to. Can’t let that hollow sadness take it place. Not in front of _him_. 

He’ll leave like all the rest. 

“What the fuck would you know, Johnson?” he spits. Can’t even look Danny in the eyes because he knows seeing the pain he’s caused will only crack him further. 

More ringing silence. The frigid air is whipping, making him sniffle and wipe his face. He can’t tell if he’s shaking from the cold anymore. When he pulls his hand back, it’s wet; when he catches his reflection in Danny’s car, his eyes are ringed red.

He turns on his heel to leave before Danny does.

Soft hands pull him back, insistent as they manhandle Frank ‘til he and Danny are chest to chest. They slide down and wrap around his waist in a vise-like grip, Danny’s head resting atop his. He’s so warm...

Danny’s sighing again when Frank finally cries. He’s quiet about it, muffles any sobs in the crook of Danny’s neck but he can’t quite hide the tremors. Nothing thrilling about them. 

“Oh, baby...” Danny’s whispering, shushing him and rubbing the tension out Frank’s back in languid strokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Award goes to Frank’s mental instability for Danny’s blue balls.
> 
> Edit: for the OGs that read “Clyde” instead of Clive :)

**Author's Note:**

> titled inspired by MSI. twitter is @dbleshotandink


End file.
